


not enough gold in the world

by batyatoon



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath, Catharsis, F/M, Missing Scene, POV Second Person, Side Quests, Zevran gets a cameo, protect Alistair 2K4ever, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-14 11:24:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10535487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batyatoon/pseuds/batyatoon
Summary: After Alistair's meeting with Goldanna ends badly, the Warden heads back there on her own to have a talk.It goes about as well as you might expect.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is ultimately BethCGPhoenix's fault, for bringing her Playstation and DA:O to my house over New Year's. I hope you're proud of yourself. <3
> 
> Title is taken from the [song of the same name](http://eddiefromohio.com/index.php?page=songs&category=Portable_EFO_Show&display=371) by Eddie From Ohio.

The camp’s secure, some twenty minutes’ walk from the city walls.  Everyone else is busy, mending harness or washing clothes or cooking supper or tomorrow’s breakfast. Zevran has agreed to cover for your absence, in thanks for the boots, and hasn’t asked any questions.

(You take particular notice that Alistair's in his tent, polishing a nick out of one of his daggers: a slow, tedious, meticulous job, and one that means he won't have to talk to anyone for hours.  It makes your heart ache, but at least it means there's a good chance he won't notice you've gone.)

Nothing threatens you on the solitary walk back to Denerim.  You almost wish something would.

But nothing does, which means nothing’s taken the edge off your anger -- the anger that’s been quietly seething in the pit of your stomach since morning -- when you knock sharply at the washerwoman’s door.  You wait for one long beat, and another, and there’s no response.

Kicking in the door, you will admit to yourself later, is maybe a little excessive.

She comes rushing in from the back room, hands reddened and dripping from the washtub, mouth already open on a cry of outrage. “Here, you, what do you think you're --”

You close the distance between the two of you and take her across the throat with one gauntleted forearm, pinning her against the wall and cutting off most of her air in one brutally efficient move.  She freezes, too shocked even to struggle for a moment, and then too terrified.  When your other hand brings out the diamond you took off one of yesterday's bandits, holding it up in front of her eyes, the look on her face is almost funny as confusion and avarice start to compete with the fear.

“This is yours,” you tell her, keeping your voice quiet and calm, almost friendly, “if you keep your mouth shut and listen to me for the next five minutes.  Can you do that?”

Goldanna's eyes dart rapidly from the gemstone to your face and back again, two or three times.  She opens her mouth, closes it, and nods unsteadily.

“All right,” you say, and ease up on the pressure enough to let her breathe freely.  “Are any of your children in here with us, right now?”

A different fear touches her face, and she shakes her head no.

“Good. I don’t want to frighten any of them. None of this is _their_ fault.” You let go of her entirely and step back a pace, leaving her to sag against the wall, rubbing her throat and glaring at you in terror and renewed outrage -- and what you’re pretty sure is recognition.

“Oh yes, it’s me.  The Grey Warden tart following your brother around for his fortune.”  It comes out smoothly acid, like something Morrigan might have said.  “But _you’re_ a respectable washerwoman, so I thought we’d air out a little dirty laundry.”

Goldanna flinches at that, but it’s not guilt; it’s still fear, and anger at you for putting her in that fear.  You could get tired of that look very fast, you think distantly.  You don’t want her to be afraid.  You want her to be _ashamed_.

So you step back again, and fold your arms and lean one shoulder against the wall, and you keep your voice dry and level.  Unthreatening.

“Let’s start with this, then: Alistair isn’t a prince.  He isn’t wealthy.  He never was.  About the best thing you could say for his life growing up is he never starved.  The king didn’t want him; the Arl of Redcliffe took him in as a servant, but sent him away to the Chantry when he was a child.  The closest thing he’s ever had to a family are the Grey Wardens, and now they’re all gone except the two of us.

“Do you know anything about what Grey Wardens are _for_ , woman?  Do you know there’s a Blight on the rise, and we’re the only ones left to stand in its way?  Which is why we’re tearing all over Ferelden trying to raise an army, sleeping rough and fighting off demons and blood mages and Antivan assassins and Maker knows what, and you don’t have to say a word, it’s all over your face: _what’s that to do with me?_ ”

For the first time a flush crosses her face, at the contempt in your voice.

“Well, what it has to do with you, Goldanna, is first that you’re one of the people we’re trying to save from the Blight.  And so are your kids, just incidentally.  And second that when we came to Denerim, Alistair thought the bare rumor of your existence was important enough to take a side trip in the middle of everything to see if you were really here, and to meet you.  Because just maybe you could be the family he never had.”

Very softly, now. “And _you_ treated him like filth.  For other men’s sins, committed when he was a helpless infant.  As much an orphan as you were.”

_There_ : she looks away, finally, biting her lip.

It’s enough.  You don’t have to tell her about the dream, that tiny private piece of Alistair’s deepest yearning, turned by the sloth demon into a trap for his mind.  The dream you had to destroy.  She doesn’t get to know about that.

“Now.”  Still lethally soft, as you hold out the diamond again.  “I think my five minutes are up.  Do you have anything to say to me?”

Warily, she reaches for the gem, as though expecting you to pull it away again.  When you don’t, she snatches it and tucks it deep into a pocket of her shabby dress.

“You got no call to judge me,” she mutters, glaring at the floorboards under your boots.  “For all you been through, the pair of you, you ain’t had to live like I have to feed your babes.”

“No?” you say.  “Fine, then.”

And you unsling the backpack you’re wearing, and upend its contents onto the floor with a ringing clatter: helmets, boots, daggers, axes, miscellaneous pieces of armor, a dented silver chalice.  Three or four days’ worth of loot; the sight of it all just makes you weary, right now.  Goldanna’s eyes bulge, staring at the pile, and then up at you.

“Here.  Sell it for whatever you can get, I can always get more.  Buy those kids some food, some decent shoes, whatever they need.  Only condition I’m putting on it is this,” and you have to stop yourself from reaching out to pin her to the wall again, to make sure she hears you.  You settle for holding her gaze with yours, hard and unblinking.

“If you ever, _ever_ cross paths with Alistair again, you tell him you’re sorry you blamed him for his mother’s death.  And I don’t give a rat’s ass if you are or not, but you damn well make sure _he_ believes you’re actually sorry.  Are we clear?”

Goldanna stares for another beat, then jerks her head in a nod.

“Good,” you say, and turn on your heel to head out into the late slanting sun and the bustle of the marketplace, letting the door bang shut behind you.

If you walk fast, you can be back at the camp before sunset.


End file.
